No compromise

There are people who don’t care. People who sold themselves to a golden bull. People who struggle to get by and would do anything to change it. There are those who don’t care what they do, as long as it brings them money. Then there are people who just barely get by, who can’t afford vacation, luxuries, and their only self indulgment is dinner at Applebee’s once a week.
But there are also people who care. Call themselves artists, sometimes starving artists. Those are my every day heroes. In their forties, don’t have any regular jobs, working sometimes as carpenters or room painters, eating leftovers from somebody else’s meals, not having a bed to rest their bones on, sucking up all the unemployment they can from the government. Those people say: “That’s it. No more compromise. No more whoring. We’re artists. And won’t pretend we’re something else any more. If we can make it – great. If not – at least we’re doing the right thing. In the summer we can sleep in the park, or a homeless shelter in the winter. As long as we have a place to work on what we’re working on.” Chapeau bas, oh thou artists.

Coney Island